


A Whisper of Hope

by Silberias



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Sansa goes with Sandor from the Blackwater, theon is not a turncloak in this universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa goes with Sandor Clegane after he desserts the Battle of the Blackwater, escaping down through the Stormlands and into the Dornish Marches. When Sansa becomes seriously ill, her companion goes to the Yronwoods seeking help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Whisper of Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSweetestThing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSweetestThing/gifts).



> So I had meant to write this far sooner than I have, but then again I didn't mean for FFTIA to explode into such a huge story. So there we go! I hope you enjoy this story!

Sansa barely survived the flight from King's Landing. Though Sandor tried his best to provide for the two of them she took ill somewhere in the Stormlands and the journey into the Dornish Marches was nothing more than a fever dream to her. She remembered nothing after they'd reached the mouth of the Boneway. The maester and the women who cared for her when she was once again lucid said it was amazing she'd survived the fever much less the pneumonia that had set in. Though she asked and asked for Sandor to sit with her their replies were only that he was still recovering from his wounds and could not be moved.

Instead Prince Quentyn Martell, a boy near Robb's age, often sat at her side and tried to make her smile. He was plain looking compared to the men she saw training in the courtyards below her windows here in Yronwood, but he was kind to her. The infection in her lungs was slow to dissipate and she was very weak--and the fear of what the Dornish might choose to do with her ate at her despite the sweet words of those around her. Sandor Clegane might be rough company, and his stares across the campfire had sometimes left her petrified--curled up under her cloak she would lay awake all night in fear of what might happen to her--but she had known his mind, what he planned on doing with her eventually.

"My uncle makes his way here, my lady," Prince Quentyn said to her one evening as he helped her down the stairs to share supper with the Yronwoods. She spared him a glance as she stopped to rest against the wall. The dresses that Lady Gwyneth's mother Lady Artemsa had bestowed on her had to be laced fairly tightly lest they fall from her shoulders, a condition which was not ideal given her shortness of breath and difficulty of movement. The son of Prince Doran remained consistently kind to her, in a way that made her hope that the Martells would not return her to King's Landing.

"The Red Viper," she said softly, once more wrapping her hands around Prince Quentyn's arm. He nodded, resuming their easy pace down the stairs. A thrill of fear settled into her at the thought of meeting the man--and not only meeting him, but meeting him while amongst the Yronwoods who had led to his fearsome moniker.

"Where is my sworn sword, Sandor Clegane?" Her companion frowned for half a moment before his lips smoothed once more as he shook his head. None would tell her of him, only that he lived and was recovering from his wounds still. She could not remember an attack, nor any manner of wounds, but little Lady Gwyneth said that Sansa had been delirious when brought to their gates.

Dinner was a small victory, as she'd been cooped up in her room for so long as she fought to regain her strength. The nightmares of Father's death had eased somewhat as she'd settled into the safety that the Dornish appeared to offer--though at what price she had yet to see, and this was one of her greatest worries. Part of her felt regret for those she'd left behind in King's Landing: her handmaiden, Lord Tyrion, a few of the ladies who had chosen to hedge their bets between a Lannister already crowned Queen and a Stark destined for the position. Lord Tyrion especially would be punished for allowing her to escape somehow--but that was his world. It was not the world of a girl from the North, no matter her birth or standing.

"Prince Oberyn makes his way to us, Lady Sansa, he will be here on the morrow," Lord Anders said as wine was poured for the main course. Sansa politely sipped at it, knowing that gulping down a Dornish red would make her vomit, though the others at the table took hearty droughts. She wished now that perhaps she had thought to dye her hair--bleach it to golden red with lemons and vinegar, or turn it nut brown with acorn ink. Would they have taken her in, though? A nameless, dying girl in the keeping of a violent Clegane of the Westerlands?

Lord Anders' wife spared her a sweet smile and took her hand briefly.

"He will be delighted to meet Lord Eddard Stark's daughter, I do not doubt, and will deprive us of your company forever." Despite her care with the wine, Sansa quite suddenly felt sick indeed. She could only remember how the Queen had been so kind to her while in Winterfell, so attentive and gentle in her words to Sansa. There were also the warnings of Sandor Clegane--that he would get her settled somewhere, but that if 'settling' involved a marriage of some sort she had best accept her lot.

However the Martells would probably send her straight back to King's Landing. They had agreed to support the Crown in exchange for Myrcella's hand being given to Prince Quentyn's younger brother--or perhaps even during her fever they'd written to the Crown and Joff had given her to them as some plaything. Upon that realization--it felt like one of the horrible truths from King's Landing and she could not push the feeling aside--Sansa was suddenly barely able to breathe, frightened and panicking at what she'd gotten herself into. She should have escaped, Sandor could have carried her if she wasn't able to walk, but it was far too late for that now. Even if they managed to leave the keep, outriders would find them within a day or so.

"Lady Sansa? La---nsa--L--Sa--Lady Sansa?" she could hardly make out the words that those at the table said as she fainted dead away.

The next time she was sensible she was in her chamber--well, the one given to her, it had nothing of hers inside--and someone was bathing her brow with a cool cloth. Sansa expected one of the Yronwood women, Artemsa or Gwyneth, or a servant of some sort. Next to her, though, was a man in his middle years with a few streaks of gray shot through his long black hair. In the candlelight his dark eyes glittered.

"Poison?" she managed to croak out, her voice feeling raw from disuse. Her 'nurse' shook his head and set aside the cloth to take one of her hands between his two.

"The maester. He declared you fit to leave your bed days perhaps weeks too soon. Lady Artemsa's kindness also worked against you, my lady, with dresses laced too tight while your lungs are still so weak. Had I been here though," he chuckled, "they might well have cried poison. I am Oberyn Martell, after all, the _infamous_ Red Viper." She flinched away from him, then, suddenly afraid. He was here to send her back to the capitol, back to the torments of Joffrey and the court--and he would--

"And, should you have me, your betrothed. Here, a letter from your brother Robb," he said, handing her a roll of parchment. It was too long to have been brought by raven, though, and Sansa cast a wary eye up at the man sitting at her bedside.

"Young Theon Greyjoy arrived bearing it, a Tully button on his cloak to prove his trustworthiness. He stole a longship from the Ironborn and filled it with Northron soldiers before landing in Sunspear--he had planned on stealing you from the Red Keep, only to get word that you had disappeared."

Sansa hardly heard his words as she greedily took in everything that Robb said. There was grief in his tone as he wrote that he was winning every battle, but that by the time he reached King's Landing his forces might well be exhausted and stretched to the limit. That he feared his sisters would be trapped with King Joffrey, left to his caprices after the death of the Northron rebellion. He begged that the Martells take in Sansa and Arya, protect them in whatever fashion they deemed best. Sansa's heart ached as she realized that her family thought that Arya still lived, but it also soared. Even as he couldn't save her, like Aemon the Dragonknight returned, her brother had thought of how he might rescue her.

"Stannis Baratheon attacked King's Landing," she said softly, folding the letter up and holding it close to her heart, "and Sandor Clegane abandoned the fight. He came to my chambers and," she swallowed, keeping those strange moments to herself, "took me away. We could not take any main roads through the Stormlands, and we ate berries and mushrooms, sometimes a rabbit or a stolen chicken." She knew no more to tell him, though, and could not bring herself to consider his suit yet. She'd begun her bleeding just days before the attack and though Robb couldn't have known it he was not sending an unflowered girl into a betrothal--he was sending a woman flowered into perhaps a marriage.

"He cared for you, on the road? Clegane." There was a coolness to Prince Oberyn's eyes as he questioned her, and Sansa worried for her Hound. Sandor was alike to Theon Greyjoy in a way, she'd decided. Bound to family that were strangers and antagonists to him, given in service to another family who held supremacy over his own. There was deep pain there, but also perhaps wells of goodness. Sansa thought of Sandor's goodness, pushing away the intense and unsettling looks he would give her as they traveled alone through the woods of the Stormlands.

"As he was able. He is," she took in a deep breath here, reminding herself who she was speaking to, "he is unlike his brother or his brother's lord. He did not hurt me." Some of the tension went out of Prince Oberyn's shoulders, and Sansa promised herself then that no one would know of the kiss Sandor had stolen from her nor his stares. From another man they might be waved away, but were something entirely different coming from the brother of Gregor Clegane.

"I shall ask Lord Anders to release him from his chains, then," at her gasp Prince Oberyn gave a weak smile and continued, "he was trying to kidnap the maester when Ser Cletus found him and called the men-at-arms down on him. It was apparently quite a shock when he started bellowing that your death would be on their heads when he woke in his cell the next day. He does not believe that you were rescued from where he hid you, he thinks you dead." Tears pricked at Sansa's eyes and she tried to keep from sniffling then--crying would only make her lightheaded and dizzy as her lungs labored to keep up.

Prince Oberyn took her hand and kissed the back of it before gently laying it back on her lap. He was tall indeed as he looked down at her as he stood.

"Think on your brother's letter, my lady, we may speak more of his plans tomorrow," he said softly. She grabbed his wrist then, her hand darting as quickly as she could manage, and kept him from leaving her side.

"What would I be to you?" For she surely knew what she would be to Sandor, and while he was preferable to Joff he was not the sort of man who wedded happily or by choice. He was kind enough to her, and from his heated stares she knew he was unlikely to stray from her bed, but after deserting the Kingsguard he would not be able to safely support her in the secrecy her own identity demanded.

Prince Oberyn sat down once more at her words, wrapping one hand around hers and rubbing a comforting oval on her wrist.

"As my wife? Whatever takes your interest, whatever will make you happy or bring you contentment. Children, should you want them when you are old enough, or a life free of them save my natural born daughters.The people of Sunspear letting you kiss their children's cheeks or spending your days splashing and swimming in the Water Gardens."

He did not flinch as her grip grew tighter and tighter on his wrist, a few of her nails biting into his flesh now.

"And may I keep Sandor Clegane as my sworn sword, to defend me during the days or hours where you cannot?" Here a bittersweet twist to his mouth, the lines on his face deepening with the expression.

"If he wishes to remain your guardian he is welcome to the task. If he wishes for a chest of silver and a berth on a boat to Essos that is what he will be granted. If you wish to follow him there none shall stop you and I will answer gladly to your mother and brother's wrath. There are always choices in Dorne, even for those supposedly bound by duty. You need only tell me, my lady, and your will shall be done."

With that she'd released him and lay back in bed, her heart racing from more than just the weakness of her body.

The next morning Prince Oberyn returned, this time to carry her down to breakfast. He was gentle as he picked her up, checking that she was comfortable before descending down to the great hall, and halfway there she relaxed against him in a way that had never quite been safe to do with Sandor. The things he'd promised her seemed fanciful, but they also seemed so much more real than anything the Lannisters and the Crown had promised her.

The Yronwoods all sat at one end of the table, separated by a few seats from her sworn sword--who was warily picking at a chicken before the huge man glanced at Prince Oberyn and Sansa herself. He knocked the chair over he stood so fast, and Sansa could see the angry weals on his wrists from where manacles had so lately clasped together.

"You prissy lout, get your hands off her," he snarled as he advanced, though his eyes showed stunned relief that she was indeed alive. She must have been in a dismal state if he thought her to have died from her illness. Prince Oberyn did not surrender her into Sandor's arms, rather he gently set her down on her feet and helped her to a seat across from where the Yronwoods had seated her sworn sword--Sandor knelt next to her and took one of her small white hands in his.

"Have they hurt you?" They'd agreed on the road that she was to show indifference or disgust with him if she was alright, and sweet affection if she was unwell in some way.

"Why you should care, Dog, I know not," she said, taking her hand from his. The tension bled out of his shoulders then and he stood up, pulled out the chair next to hers, and then pulled his plates towards himself as he sat next to her.

"Why I bother to care I know not," he growled in mockery of her curt dismissal. The Yronwoods stared at them as though they were a pair of strange beasts heretofore undiscovered in the wessdorne. Prince Oberyn chuckled and went around the table to occupy the seat so lately vacated by Sandor.

"Clegane I believe you have been informed of the options immediately presenting themselves to you?" he asked as a page loaded his plate for him, leaning indolently against one arm of his chair. Sansa glanced at her cohort, seeing how his face turned from expressive to impassive. He was good at keeping his thoughts secret, for all that he shared so many of them with her.

"Aye, and I will take the chest of silver," Sansa inhaled deeply, shocked that her surety of safety was sold so brusquely. He had cared so much for her on the road--he had risked his life to get a maester to her as she lay dying in some cave--and now he would abandon her for fifty pounds of silver.

"Is there anything else that House Martell or Dorne might offer you in thanks for having rescued Lady Sansa?"

"Point me in the direction of a good armorer, and get me a decent horse that bites idiots." There were tears forming in her eyes now, though she refused to let them fall. His words were callous and harsh, she knew this better than most, and Sansa would not let them shock her into crying.

"Lord Anders will know the best armorer, and you shall be supplied a horse from my own stables. Thank you for your--"

"Did I say I was finished?" Sansa flushed bright red, she was sure of it, as the list of demands was likely about to become crass. So far there had been no cursing or epithets, but there was only so long Sandor Clegane could keep talking without them.

"I'll not be a kicked dog, either. I will be the captain of your household guard, or else you can get some sheepfucker from Essos to do it and you'll not be seeing me again." A muscle twitched in Prince Oberyn's jaw but there was a certain merriment in his eyes as he nodded and raised up a glass.

"To my new and colorful friend, then, Sandor Clegane," he said, making no mention of the agreement they'd made the previous evening--that she would be willing to have him should her sworn sword stay at her side. It made Sansa glad, for she was already mortified from the way the morning had gone so far. At the end of the table Ser Cletus was turning red from suppressed laughter while Lady Gwyneth grinned like a monkey at the language that had overtaken the breakfast table. Lord and Lady Yronwood were flabbergasted to say the least.

Later that afternoon she wrote to her brother a letter that was to be taken by Theon Greyjoy--acquiescing to the alliance he had made with the Dornish by giving them her hand, though she did spent a short time expressing her worry that they could turn against the North and the Riverlands. Princess Myrcella was to wed a son of the Ruling Prince, after all, and Sansa dearly hoped her brother knew what he was doing.

Sandor groused and growled, weeks later in Sunspear, as he walked her through the Sept towards Prince Oberyn. They had already worked out a secret signal should the Dornishman mistreat her somehow. As her maidencloak was removed and then replaced with one of bright Martell orange, Sansa dearly hoped such a signal would never be needed but at that at least she had an ally of sorts in this new place she found herself in. Looking up into her husband's face Sansa bit the inside of her cheek in nervousness, but she carried through well enough. It was her duty as a Stark to obey the head of her family, and it was her duty as a lady to marry as she was told.

But this man, with lines carved deeply into his face by laughter and sorrow alike, had shown her something else--new paths that were all her own to strike out on. And of those paths, she had chosen him--had put on her wedding finery this morning, had smiled at her maids, had walked to the Sept, all of her own accord and with full understanding of what she was doing and who awaited her at the altar between the Mother and the Father. Life was not a song--her husband was in the middle of his life, he had eight children already, and a lover as well--but it was not a series of tragedies either. There were good people, still, and Prince Oberyn Martell was one of them.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, let me know how you liked it? Please? 
> 
> Also thank you for reading!


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